The kitchen smelled of tuna and old coffee, the faint tang of brine mixing with the stale warmth of yesterday's grounds still sitting in the pot.
Kael sat at the table, a half-empty can of tuna cradled in his hands and the metal cool against his palms. He speared a chunk with his fork, chewing slowly, the fish's oily texture coating his tongue. It tasted flat as if the air itself had dulled it, but he forced it down anyway. Food was food and the cans wouldn't last forever.
The radio hummed softly on the counter, its static a low murmur beneath the broadcast's endless loop: "Stay indoors. Do not approach rifts or hostile entities."
His gaze drifted to the glass door, still blocked by the fridge, its white bulk casting a shadow across the floor. Through the narrow gap in the blinds, the yard stretched out, wet grass glistening under the gray sky.
And there it was; the orange core, glowing faintly where it had fallen, pulsing. It hadn't moved since last night, since that hulking thing had staggered off and left it behind.
But now, in the quiet of mid-morning, it seemed brighter, the light sharper as if it had grown impatient.
Kael set the can down, the fork clinking softly against the rim. His fingers twitched, a faint itch crawling up his arm, as if the air was tugging at him and coaxing him closer. He rubbed his wrist, trying to shake it off, but the sensation deepened, syncing with the core's glow; pulse for pulse, a rhythm that matched the dull throb in his bones. He swallowed, the tuna's aftertaste bitter now, and glanced at Marla.
She stood at the sink, filling a pot with water, her back to him. The tap gurgled, a thin stream splashing into the steel basin, and she watched it with a focus that felt deliberate, like she was avoiding something.
Her hair was tied back with a frayed elastic, strands escaping to frame her face, and her hands moved with a steady rhythm; fill, set aside and repeat. Practical as ever, Marla. Always moving, always planning.
The radio crackled, the broadcast shifting mid-loop. A new voice cut through, female, clipped and precise: "This is Dr. Priya Kapoor, Emergency Services. Update on rift objects: Reports indicate civilians exhibiting abnormal strength after contact. Caution: mutations observed. Do not touch. ADF units are studying samples. Updates will be hourly." The message ended abruptly, static flaring before the original loop resumed.
Kael's stomach tightened. Abnormal strength. He glanced at the core again, the orange light pulsing brighter, as if it had heard. His hand drifted to the table's edge, fingers curling around the wood, and he felt that itch surge; a warmth spreading up his arm, like the core was reaching back. He stood, the chair scraping softly, and took a step toward the glass door.
"Don't even think about it," Marla said, not turning around. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the hum of the radio and the tap's steady drip. She set the pot down with a thud, water sloshing over the rim, and grabbed another from the cupboard. "You heard her. Mutations. We don't need that."
Kael froze, his hand halfway to the blinds. The warmth in his arm faded, leaving a faint ache, like a muscle strained too long. He swallowed, nodding even though she couldn't see it. "Yeah," he muttered, stepping back. "I know." But his eyes lingered on the core, the glow dimming slightly, as if disappointed.
Marla turned off the tap, the silence sudden and heavy. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, the fabric worn thin, and glanced at him over her shoulder. "We're not desperate yet," she said, her tone softer now almost gentle. "We've got food and water, it's enough to last a few days. Help's coming, Kael. Forty-eight hours they said."
He nodded again, sinking back into the chair. The skillet rested on the table, its handle within reach, a small comfort. He picked it up, turning it in his hands, the weight familiar. "You're right," he said, forcing a half-smile. "I'm just… antsy, I guess."
She grunted, setting the last pot on the counter, and grabbed her notepad from the table; a grocery list still scrawled on the back, milk and eggs crossed out. She flipped to a blank page, scribbling check batteries with a stubby pencil.
"Antsy gets you killed," she muttered, adding ration cans below it. "Focus on what we can control."
Kael set the skillet down, the metal clinking against the wood. He picked up the tuna can again, spearing another chunk, but his appetite had faded. The core's glow flickered in the corner of his vision, a silent dare, and he felt that itch stir once more.
He forced his gaze to the table, to the neat rows of cans Marla had stacked earlier; six of tuna, three of beans and the dented corn. Practical and safe.
But the warmth lingered, a faint echo in his bones, and he knew it wouldn't stay quiet forever.